So Complicated
by Tinstars
Summary: England just wants to wish America a happy Valentine's Day. Why won't he answer the phone?


For the USUK Comm 2011 Sweetheart's Week!

Apologies for any errors and awfulness. I kind of wrote it at the last minute. :|

Happy Valentine's Day!

* * *

It began in the later years of their alliance. England decided to call America and wish him a good Valentine's Day. He didn't mean anything by it, of course, except as an act of friendship and cordiality. It took several bottles of wine and a couple of internal pep talks before his fingers successfully hit the right combination of numbers.

But America hadn't answered his call. He rang again later in the day, but still received no answer.

It was incredibly frustrating, to gather his courage and have it come to nothing. He was put out, but it wasn't the end of the world. He assumed that America had opted to make plans rather than spend the day alone.

America had returned his call days later, sounding exhausted. England was mildly suspicious, but he let it go.

That is, until the next year. And the next year, and the next.

Every year, he made a habit of phoning America on Valentine's Day in the hopes of catching him at home, but it never happened.

He couldn't help but wonder just what America was doing that kept him occupied every successive Valentine's Day. Over time, it began to border on an obsession. England tried to drop hints, even asking subtly probing questions, but America never gave him any direct answers. It was always, "oh, I was just doing stuff" or "I was around".

As much as he tried to avoid it, England simply couldn't stop thinking about what America had been doing and, to a much more stressful degree, who he'd been doing it with. As far as he knew, America had no longterm romantic interests. Not publicly. At the same time, America was extremely handsome and charismatic, and despite his tendency to be unspeakably aggravating at times, he probably had prospective lovers falling for him left and right. This notion, this nagging little thought, affected England so much more than he'd thought possible. The entire month of February became enshrouded in a cloud of suspicion and unrest.

It was this creeping anxiety that led him to America's doorstep, after many years of mounting apprehension, on Valentine's Day. The car was in the driveway and he could hear the television. He frowned and checked his mobile, but the small glowing screen contained no messages, despite the fact that he'd called from his hotel earlier in the day.

He knocked on the door, half expecting to be completely ignored by the house's inhabitant. To his surprise, the door opened promptly, and the person who greeted him on the other side was…

"Canada?"

His surprise seemed equally mirrored in Canada's expression, which soon contorted into a look of pure panic. The glittery hearts atop Canada's festive headband bounced on their springs as he looked down at the floor.

"Hey, England," he said to the floor, the doorknob squeaking as he gripped it uneasily. England was about to demand an explanation, but Canada continued, slowing lifting his gaze. "I'm sorry, but I don't think you should be here."

England balked. His surprise turned to shock, which quickly erupted into anger.  
"And why not?" He slammed his hand against the doorframe. Canada flinched, but kept his position, blocking the entrance. "Since when are _you_ allowed to regulate his visitors?"

Canada paused and as he took a deep breath, his body stiffened with an unexpected air of authority. "I am today. America doesn't want to see anybody." His tone was firm, though it retained its natural softness.

With a deepening frown, England tried to peer inside the house. He cursed Canada's height, which was just obtrusive enough to block his view. "What have you done with him?" he snapped. Every moment served to increase his suspicion tenfold.

"I haven't done anything, but he can't have any guests today. Especially…well, he just can't." Canada folded his arms, using himself as a barrier.

England unconsciously clenched his hands. The whole scenario was playing games with his mind. Was he really going to let Canada keep him from figuring this out once and for all?

He waited another moment before making his move, catching Canada by surprise. His fingers hooked into the molding of the doorframe and he pulled himself inside. His shoulder slammed against the door and he forced his way past Canada in a matter of seconds, using his scrappy build to his advantage.

As soon as England was inside, he ran through the first floor of the house, calling out America's name. Canada caught up to him in the hallway, and desperately tried to get him to stop.

"I'm serious, England! He _can't_ know that anyone is in here." Canada seemed to be fighting an urge to use more force. England was small, but he would fight with everything he had, especially when it came to America.

England stood in the hallway and narrowed his eyes. It was obvious now that America was upstairs. But why? What was he doing that could possibly merit this level of secrecy?

He started towards the stairs, intent on discovering for himself what was going on. Canada tried to block his way once again, bracing himself between the walls. England curled his lip and scowled, but Canada held his ground. They stared each other down with the intensity of two people who felt they had a sacred duty.

Their showdown was on the verge of taking a nasty turn, when a call came from upstairs. Both men looked up towards the ceiling, estimating the source of the noise. Canada shifted his weight nervously before slowly walking backwards, and breaking into a run. England chased after him, sprinting up the stairs in record time.

When he reached the top of the staircase, he saw the door to America's room open just a crack, but not enough to see inside.

"Matt?" he heard America say, out of sight.

"I'm here," Canada replied, rushing to the door.

England stayed close to the wall and watched the scene unfold with great curiosity.

"Could you get me more water, please?" America's voice was strangely tender, and much softer than usual.

"Sure thing. I'll be back in a minute." Canada started to push the door closed, but America stuck his foot out to block it

America sighed affectionately. "Thank you so much, Mattie. You know how much this means to me."

"Ah," Canada said, backing away, "it's nothing. Please don't hug me again." He rubbed at his back gingerly.

"I just want you to know how much I appreciate you," America replied, slightly breathless.

England felt a small pang in his chest. He clutched at his heart absentmindedly.

"I know you do. So stay in there, and I'll go get your water." Canada tried once more to venture back into the hallway, but America grabbed his hand and held it steady.

"You're the only one I can trust," America said, with undeniable sincerity. "I don't say that enough."

England was barely aware of himself until his hands started shaking. It was like a knife had been thrust into England's heart and twisted mercilessly.

"It's alright. Really. Just stay put, okay?" With a jerk of the wrist, Canada pulled himself free from America's grasp and shut the door. He walked over to England and stood silently, waiting for him to move and making sure that he didn't sprint past like the last time. England was visibly upset, but he started walking down the stairs, followed closely by Canada.

Perhaps it was better this way. Better if he left America to carry on his relationships in private. He didn't need to know his ally's personal business to keep up their political relationship. And that's all it was, a political relationship.

His chest hurt and now Canada, of all people, was studying him with pity. There was no need for it. America was nothing special to him and he was certainly nothing special to America, if this stupid day was any indication.

He stood by the side-door and stared at the white curtains that framed the window. Canada was just behind, sympathetic but silently urging him to leave, guiding him closer to the door. He felt tired and angry for absolutely no reason, and upset with himself for letting it get to him.

The day wasn't lost yet, he supposed, as he stepped out into the open air. It was barely evening, and there was sure to be plenty of opportunities to drown away this sudden, inexplicable pain in the local nightlife. He heard a whispered "sorry", and the door shut behind him.

From the walkway on the side of America's house, he could see cars driving past. Couples on their way to dinner. People driving home to greet their lover, or their family, to celebrate the joy of love with their nearest and dearest. Yet here he was, loitering outside the home of one of his only real friends, and feeling so completely and utterly alone.

England leaned against the fence and looked at the sky. The light was just beginning to fade. He wasn't ready to go yet. It all seemed very silly, but he wasn't usually one to give up so easily, even on a silly cause. The longer he stayed there, feeling depressed and self-deprecating, the less he wanted to leave.

After a period of reflection, he found a new breath of purpose. So, apparently America didn't trust him. That wasn't his problem. This wasn't about his feelings being hurt. Besides which, such petty behavior wasn't suited to a man of his age and experience.

This was about his close friend and ally being evasive and keeping blatant secrets from him.

He was stronger than this. His goal renewed, he strode decisively back to the door and peered in through the window. Canada was watching TV from one of the large armchairs in the living room. He spotted America's phone on the table, and he knew then that he was definitely going to solve this, even if it killed him.

Moving away from the window, he pressed his palms to the door and thought about the best way of going about this. Violence was out of the question. It wasn't as if he actually harbored malicious feelings towards Canada. A bit of confusing jealousy, perhaps, but he certainly wished no ill will upon him. And it was of day meant to celebrate love and affection, after all.

The answer came to him suddenly. He pulled out his mobile and started to recite the spell under his breath. When he found Canada's number, he leaned towards the window and watched carefully for the right moment. Through the glass pane, he saw Canada take out his phone and grimace at the number, and then answer after a moment of hesitation. He shouted out the last few words of the incantation through the phone. There was a definite thrill about watching the silvery branch that emerged from Canada's phone wrap itself around his hand. It was followed by an intense head-rush, and in an instant he was inside the house.

All the lights were much too bright and his vision was blurry, but as soon as he could feel his legs, he ran to the door. He was meant to have switched places with Canada, but there was no trace of Canada where he had been. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement in the neighbor's yard. It seemed Canada had been deposited on top of a hedge.

Ah well. So his spells didn't always completely hit their mark.

He pressed his hand to the wall and concentrated his energy through the perimeter of the house. A green glow at his fingertips told him that he'd successfully guarded the house against intrusion, but before he could test it effectively, he was on his way up the stairs to America's bedroom.

England felt a surge of adrenaline thrumming throughout his body with every step. His hand rested on the doorknob for just a moment. He took a deep breath and collected himself, all while suppressing his giddiness.

Slowly, he opened the door and stepped inside. His vision was instantly assaulted with a barrage of reds and pinks. Valentine decorations were scattered everywhere, many of which looked like they'd been around for decades.

America sat in the middle of the room, facing away from England. The skin on his arms looked slightly pink, as if he'd just gotten out of a hot shower or a sauna, and the red headphones in his ears ensured that he'd been deaf to the sound of the door creaking open. He was surrounded by stacks of books and papers and various romance-themed paraphernalia.

In his bewilderment, England pushed the door closed. America's back straightened suddenly, and he pulled out one headphone without looking up.

"Mattie, you know I'd love to hang out, but you probably shouldn't stay in here with me." His tone was extraordinarily warm and friendly. England gave no response at first. He'd barely managed to take in the visual cacophony in front of him.

Just as he cleared his throat, America turned around.

The instant America saw that it was him, he made a strangled choking sound, and scrambled toward the opposite corner of the room. Books and toys were scattered by his frantic footwork. He groped blindly at the nearby desk and managed to get to his feet without taking his eyes off England for a second. His chest was heaving noticeably, and his face was just as heated as his arms, if not moreso. For a long time, he stood in silence and watched England like a scared animal.

"Alfred…" England began, taking a step toward America, who responded by pressing his back flat against the wall. Unsure of what to do, England froze in place. "I just came to see what you were doing today," he offered, explaining his intrusion.

America continued to say nothing. He looked absolutely horrified. Despite trying to build up his resolve again, England couldn't deny that this reaction stung like anything - that America found him such an unwelcome guest on Valentine's Day.

"I've been worried, you see." England hoped that showing a touch of vulnerability might encourage America to open up. "You always seem to be busy on Valentine's Day. You don't answer your phone. I thought that something might be wrong."

No reaction. Absolutely none.

"Perhaps it's not my place, but in spite of everything that's happened between us, we…that is, I _am_ interested in your life." He tried to give a hint of a smile, but it somehow turned into a grimace along the way.

"_Oh yes, that didn't sound strange or invasive at all,_" he scolded himself.

America relaxed his shoulders just a bit. England took this as a sign to keep going.

"So, maybe you could explain what you're doing in here?"

America's shoulders shot up again instantly, and England couldn't help but sigh. He'd been so close, and this was making him more frustrated than before.

"Could you please give me a hint, at the very least? I just want to understand." He took another glance around at the floor covered in colorful debris.

He saw America open his mouth, and his heart skipped a beat. A strained noise came out, followed by the beginning of a word, before America slapped both hands over his mouth and turned even more red.

England breathed in heavily and frowned. America had been speaking readily just a moment before, when he thought he was talking to Canada. A flare of jealousy blazed through his heart.

"Please?" England encouraged.

America blinked pathetically and shook his head. There was a mixture of sadness and exhilaration in his wide eyes.

After a few more moments of staring at each other, America lowered his gaze and slowly pointed in the direction of the door.

England arched his brow incredulously.

"You're not going to tell me anything? Nothing at all?"

America shook his head again, eyes still cast firmly downward. He nervously bit his lip.

England's throat felt dry. After all this, he wasn't going to learn anything. America refused to speak.

America didn't trust him.

And just like that, England's stubbornness kicked into full gear. He could feel his feet root themselves firmly on the ground. Enough was enough.

"No. I'm not going anywhere." He crossed his arms defiantly. "Not until you tell me the truth."

America looked up at him, cheeks flushed, and lowered his arm. He looked so worried and upset that England's reserve faltered for a moment. America cleared his throat. He made a gesture as though he was about to speak, but nothing came out of his mouth. England leaned forward involuntarily in anticipation. America opened and closed his mouth several more times, gesturing emphatically along the way.

Finally, he spoke, rushed and hoarse. "_Love you._"

England's heart seemed to stop dead. America flinched noticeably and covered his mouth.

"W-what did you say?" England asked in disbelief.

America grunted and took a deep, shaky breath. He closed his eyes and started over again. "Love. I love you." He gasped at his own words and looked away.

England took a step back and rested his hand against the frame of the bed. He was waiting for America to laugh and point and say that it was just an "awesome" joke and ha-ha-ha, wasn't England's face hilarious.

But the laughter didn't come. America coughed and pulled at a thread on his shirt. He let out a frustrated whine. "Love love. Ngh. Loveyou."

England gaped, but then something clicked into place.  
He waited for his voice to catch up to his mind and spoke again. "Valentine's Day. It's making you act like this."

America fixed him with a pitiable stare and nodded.

"Ah." The clenching in England's chest settled down.

But if that was the case, why had America only been slightly affected while speaking to Canada? That part didn't add up. He stared at the floor absentmindedly, and noticed America shifting his weight from one leg to the other and flexing his fingers. America was breathing hard and seemed to be concentrating on something in his mind. England watched as America became increasingly twitchy, and tried to ignore the throb of emotion just under the surface of his steady exterior.

For several moments, America kept to himself, tapping his feet against the floor and making sad, soft noises. Then he took one long, shuddering breath, put his headphone back in and closed his eyes. His limbs stopped twitching and his hips started to sway. He was mouthing along with the words of some song.

And then he started walking, eyes low-lidded, towards England. His strides were slow, and he seemed to be following his own rhythm. England tried to take another step back, but there was nowhere to go. The back of his leg hit the bed frame, and then America was there, standing in front of him, eyes focused only on him.

England tried to say something, but his voice was completely missing. He felt a hand slide along his thigh, up to his waist. It was extraordinarily warm – in fact, he could feel the intense heat radiating from America's body. He shuddered, not knowing what to do with himself. Part of him was screaming to fight against it. This was America, after all. A major source of pain and annoyance in his life.

On the other hand, it certainly didn't feel bad. Another voice, soft but powerful, told him to go along with it.

He felt another hand tracing his arm, starting at the elbow, fingers gliding down to thread between his own. America used this grip to guide his arm up, and gently pushed against his hips to sway back and forth. England could hear the faint strains of a melody, as he started to rock against his impromptu dance partner. America's bare skin was just as warm as it looked. Presumably another side effect of the holiday, it made England feel inclined to relax in spite of their intimate position.

They stayed next to the bed, America humming softly in England's ear.  
He started thinking about America's odd condition, mostly to get his mind off what they were doing.

It made perfect sense, he realized. America had always been easily influenced by popular culture, to a greater degree than most of his fellow nations. Any day with a strong cultural foundation, and especially one that encouraged such mass-production of consumer goods, was sure to have an effect on him. It was no wonder, then, that America was always more generous during Christmas, and developed that peculiar accent and a penchant for binge-drinking around St. Patrick's Day. And Valentine's Day, being so tied to one particular emotion, or the idea of an emotion, would obviously have a strong effect on his behavior. It explained why America was being so affectionate, and why he had surrounded himself with romantic iconography and books, and why his lips were so close to England's mouth and oh fuck.

America's lack of hesitation meant that England had no chance to object before he felt soft lips against his own. His body froze in place and his heart started fluttering wildly. He waited for the moment when America would pull away and they would stare at each other awkwardly and blush and shuffle around each other, but it didn't happen. America just kept kissing him, letting the warmth of his lips say everything. England stayed stubbornly unmoving, fighting the inviting warmth and the pleasure and everything that told him this was so, so right.

As it turned out, his willpower under such circumstances was pathetic. His arms found their way up America's back and he pushed against that heat as much as he possibly could, moaning into the kiss. He could think about the consequences later.

He felt his own body heat up in response, eagerly molding to America's touch. When he could see America's face again - intense blue eyes that reminded him that it was _America_ he'd been kissing - it was only for a moment. America lifted him onto the bed and leaned him against the pillows, and then they were entwined again.

England groaned and shifted as America's pelvis ground against him. His toes, still clad in shoes, curled and flexed.

America's hands explored his body, hovering over his waist, making him more and more receptive to the affection. It wasn't supposed to be like this, was it? They'd been stepping around each other for decades, always avoiding that connection, despite the steadily smoldering tension. But what had happened to the drawn-out series of blunders and misunderstandings and the decision to confess and the nights fraught with anxiety leading up to said confession?

They'd gone from naught to sixty in an instant, from dancing to snogging, and now America's tongue was in his mouth. It couldn't be this easy, but it was happening.

The heat of America's mouth was intoxicating in itself. He groaned and explored it languidly. America forced them to stay like that for a moment, frozen together in an embrace of pleasure, before pulling away and giving his bottom lip a soft little bite. He covered England's neck with small, quick pecks.

"_Love. I love. Love you,_" he chanted as he mapped England's skin with tiny kisses. "_Love," _he breathed against England's wrist. _"Every inch. Love._"

When he ran out of visible skin to lavish with kisses, he started on a lovebite. England shivered and drew in a long breath, and barely noticed America's fingers reaching inside his shirt until it was torn open. His eyes snapped open to the sight of buttons flying across the room.

What he intended to say was, "_I'll never find all of those, you imbecile!_"

Unfortunately for him, the sight of America kissing a steady line down the center of his chest left him utterly incapable of speech. All he could do was watch and make pathetic little sounds as the imbecile continued his stream of kisses over England's chest and stomach, repeating his mantra of "love", and stopping just above his trousers.

America slid up to his face with a blissful grin and took his fill of England's lips. This time, when he sat back against his heels, he reached under the brim of his shirt and pulled it off, casting it aside. England was dumbstruck, caught between admiring America's chiseled body and worrying about the direction of their escapade. His only coherent thought was that it was too soon.

So when America was hovering over him, chest bare, with the flame of desire clear in his eyes, England gathered his nerves and spoke up.

"America, I-I don't think…we really shouldn't…we shouldn't go further than this. It's not that I don't want to. I think, under the circumstances, I can admit that I bloody well do. But not right now." America's expression was unchanged, so he took a breath and continued. "It's too fast for me. I don't know what our relationship is at this point, and you…well, you're not exactly in your right mind, are you."

He waited breathlessly for a response. America kept staring for some time, and his grin grew wider. England felt as though his heart might try to escape from his chest, being under such distress, worrying that America was going to ignore his wishes. The next thing he knew, America was pressed flush against his stomach, and then his chest. The unnaturally powerful warmth overwhelmed his senses and America touched his forehead to England's sweetly. The longer they stayed in that position, as close as could be, the more the intensity built between their wildly beating hearts. America finally kissed him again, slowly and sensually, before falling heavily against the mattress.

England stared up at the ceiling and tried to breathe. Holiday or not, there was no way they could go back from this. The thought was terrifying and thrilling, and he turned to look at America. His eyes were closed, and his chest was rising and falling slowly.

"America?" England said, brushing the hair gently away from his face. There was no response, so he shook America by the shoulder. Still nothing. Something wasn't right.

He tried several more times to wake America up, but he wouldn't budge. America was unconscious.

As soon as England realized this, his blood ran cold. The possibility that something was actually wrong with America made him feel physically ill. He did everything he could to rouse America, but to no avail.

The panic set his already battered nerves on high alert. He pushed himself off the bed in one swift motion and started racing down the stairs.

He was such an idiot. There was a very good reason that America kept to himself on this day, and now that England had intruded, something had gone wrong.

His feet flew under him, and he couldn't open the door fast enough. The light of the sun hadn't completely disappeared yet. Canada was sitting on the curb, looking dejected and slightly irritated, but he answered England's frantic call and came running back into the house.

Canada tried to speak first. "What-"

"He's unconscious!" England interrupted, grabbing him by the sleeve and dragging him towards the stairs.

"Huh?" Canada said. He stopped where he was and wouldn't let England pull him any further.

"America is unconscious! I don't know what happened. We were just…doing something and the next thing I know he's out and I can't wake him!" He was practically stomping his feet, trying to get Canada to move.

Canada chewed his lip. "But other than that, he's okay? He's just unconscious?"

"What do you mean _just_ unconscious? If he won't physically wake up, it can't possibly be okay."

"No, it is." Canada turned to look at the clock on the wall. "Especially now. All the Valentine's dates are starting on the east coast. He gets kind of overwhelmed."

England stared for a moment. "So this is normal, then? Spontaneously losing consciousness?"

Canada nodded. "Yeah. Not always, but sometimes. If you were 'doing something', it probably just made him crash harder."

England blushed and broke eye contact. "How long will it last?" he asked quietly.

"It depends. Sometimes it's just an hour or two, and sometimes he's out till morning."

England was taken aback. "Morning?"

"We do have several time zones," Canada explained. "It can go on for a while."

England clenched and relaxed his fingers. At least America was going to be alright. He shuffled his feet and considered whether to ask the next question on his mind. His curiosity won out in the end. "I think I understand what's been happening, but, well - has he ever tried to…kiss you?"

Canada cleared his throat and England was suddenly aware of his open shirt. He used both hands to hold it closed.

"No. Well, not on the mouth or anything like that. He just gets a little overly affectionate. And kind of handsy."

England cleared his throat loudly. "Oh. And when he was talking to you earlier…"

"He gets really honest about his feelings." Canada seemed particularly insistent on this point. "He'd never say something like that any other day of the year."

England's heart was pounding in his ears. He knew he shouldn't dare to hope. He shouldn't, but he couldn't help himself.

"So, if he made a certain profession to me, that would be because…" he trailed off, hoping that Canada would get the rather blatant hint.

Canada bit his lip awkwardly. He fumbled around with his hands for a moment before answering quietly. "Don't make me say it. Please."

England breathed in sharply. "So he does? He…"

Canada paused, and then nodded calmly.

In all honesty, England couldn't remember ever being so happy over the exchange of so few words. He tried to keep the grin from his face, but it quickly overtook his features.

"You can leave, if you'd like to. I think I'll be able to watch him from now on." His voice was colored with excitement.

Canada smiled, looking slightly relieved. "I guess there's no point in me being here now. Just make sure he stays hydrated. There's snacks ready in the kitchen."

"I'll make sure he gets everything he needs," England assured him.

"If it's okay with you, I'm gonna stop by tomorrow to make sure he hasn't smothered you or anything." He sounded a little guilty.

England laughed and nodded. "Yes, that's fine. Thank you for everything. And, er, I'm sorry for what I did to you."

Canada rubbed his head. "Yeah, well, I'll be okay. The world stopped spinning a while ago."

Just as he was about to leave, Canada ran back and grabbed England by the shoulders in a surprisingly direct display, shaking him for emphasis. There was a desperate, haunted look in his eyes. "In the name of all that is good and decent, do _not_ let him have any candy. _Especially chocolate_."

England nodded vigorously, disturbed by the intensity of the warning. He watched Canada leave, and poured a glass of water before going back upstairs.

America was still unconscious, so England put the water on the side-table and kissed his forehead.

He brought a stack of books and debris onto the bed, and combed through them little by little. One of the most interesting objects was a worn photo album, filled with pictures of their colleagues, and quite of few photos of them together over the years. There was one in particular, which showed them both sitting at a table and laughing together. He stared at it for minutes, trying to remember what had led up to that moment, and took America's hand in his own.

Every few hours, America would wake up and shower him with physical affection and whispers and little light touches that drove him crazy, only to pass out again every time he got overheated. England stayed by his side, looking through pictures and romantic novels while curled against the curve of his body, stroking his hair and taking comfort in something he had denied for many years.

* * *

England studied America's sleeping face in the light of the morning. A small tinge of pink remained on his cheeks. As England waited, it felt like his insides were churning. He had no idea how America would act, how much he would remember, and if he would still want anything to do with him when he woke up.

Eventually, America blinked and rolled his neck, and his gaze fell onto England, whose breath hitched immediately. A wide, cheesy smile spread across America's face, and England let out a heavy sigh. He leaned over and held England in a soft kiss.

When America pulled away, England groaned and buried his face in the pillow. "You're still warm," he said.

America gave him a cheeky smile. "That usually sticks around for a little while. It's a…whaddaya call it? It's left over."

"A residual effect?" England replied, muffled by the pillow. America bumped his nose against England's cheek, seeking his lips again.

"Yeah, I guess so. Residual." America's warm little whisper made England shiver from his head to his toes. He turned to America and they shared an intimate kiss. It was several minutes before they came up for air.

England stared at the ceiling, and then at America, trying to catch his breath. "Was that residual too?" he asked playfully.

America laughed and nestled his face under England's chin. "_Damn,_" he whispered. "I don't know whether to fire Canada or promote him…to…Captain?"

England gave a small snort of laughter. "What are you talking about, love?"

"I dunno." America pulled England on top of his chest and kissed him on the nose. "My head still feels kinda mushy."

England hummed contentedly atop America's chest and studied his face. "Your lips look exceptionally red this morning," he said, carding his fingers through America's bangs.

"Ah, yeah. I think they're kind of tender. And swollen." His bottom lip stuck out slightly to attest to that fact.

England brushed his thumb against the swollen skin. "_Tender,_" he whispered, and kissed America's lips delicately.

America looked surprised by how gentle it was. He snuck an arm around England's back and pulled him closer, but before he could do anything else, he winced and hissed out a pained breath.

"What it is?" England asked with concern, sitting up in America's lap.

"My head is killing me." America rubbed his temples and grumbled.

England sighed and kissed his forehead. "Does this always happen?"

Still rubbing his head, America took a minute to work through the ache. "It lasts for a few days. I think it's worse this time, though."

England crawled off America reluctantly and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "I'll find something to ease the pain."

A hand reached out and grabbed him by the sleeve before he could stand.  
"Wait!" America said, pained but frantic. "Just stay here for a little bit. Please."

England smiled warmly and came back. America moved over and allowed England to cradle his head, and stroke his hair soothingly.

In the back of his mind, England knew that the calm wouldn't last. They weren't meant for calm. He saw many serious conversations in their future, necessary for forging such a complex relationship, and his head hurt at the thought of it. For now, he just wanted it to be easy.

When it became obvious that America was still suffering, England squeezed his hand and started to leave again.  
"I'll be right back. I promise."

"I just realized something." America held onto his hand and looked up into his eyes. "I didn't wish you a happy Valentine's Day yesterday."

England smiled shyly. His eyes found a trail from the spot where they had danced, to the tangled sheets on the bed, to his own buttonless shirt. "No, you did. I'm certain." He leaned over and kissed America on both cheeks. "But if you're really concerned about it, there's always next year."

They grinned at each other, and America pulled him down for one more kiss, loving and warm.


End file.
